


mission protocol

by Areiton



Series: in the cold, we find warmth [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes deserves nice things, Budapest, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Slash, Protective Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 21:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19028524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Mission protocol says to evade capture. Return to designated safe house by indirect, untraceable means.He follows orders--because the mission may be fucked beyond repair, but he doesn’t know how to not follow orders.





	mission protocol

He runs.

He can’t remember where he was supposed to be, after the mission--only knows it went wrong, so so wrong.

Missions have gone wrong before. But never like this, a mess of screaming metal and a ghost saying a name that echoes in him, like it’s _his_ but it can’t be, can’t be, _you are a weapon, you don’t have a name._

He runs.

He runs because he can’t do anything else.

~*~

He spends three months bouncing around the states, takes a freighter to Budapest, before he slows down.

It’s the longest he’s been out of the ice since they fished him out of that ravine, a million lifetimes ago. He runs until he stops and he stops because--

Mission protocol says to evade capture. Return to designated safe house by indirect, untraceable means.

He follows orders--because the mission may be fucked beyond repair, but he doesn’t know how to not follow orders.

But he reaches Budapest, and the safe house--

It’s a smoking ruin, a mess of charred walls and support beams, and water still spraying from the fire crew’s hose.

He watches for a long time, and then he melts into the crowd. Years of training and gut instinct sees him to a bolt hole, some deserted apartment that he hides in and he doesn’t know--

He doesn’t know what to do, now.

~*~

His face itches, and there is a lingering coldness in his fingertips. His arm--the metal arm, the one that isn’t his, that _they_ gave to him--aches in the chill of the room, aches when he moves his hand, aches when he reaches for a book. Every day his beard thickens, his arm stiffens, and he wonders--he wonders when _they_  will come for him, when _they_ will take back his property.

When _they’re_ arm will stop completely.

~*~

A drone finds him.

He stares at it for a long time, but the little winged thing doesn’t do anything. Just sits on his dirty window and watches him and he watches back, wary and then curious and then bored.

When it leaves, he almost misses it.

~*~

It comes back, is the thing. Whenever he thinks of leaving his bolthole--the drone comes back.

And sometimes it brings brown paper wrapped parcels.

The first time, it’s a small box with smoked meat and sharp cheese, with crusty bread and a little bottle oil and spices.

He eats it slow, his stomach grumbling with a hunger he didn’t realize he felt, until there’s nothing but crumbs and greasy fingers and he licks them clean, gathers the crumbs on his thumb and licks those away, too.

The note--

The note he reads almost obsessively, the paper creasing with his constant touch, and he wonders what the hell it might mean.

 

_Don’t forget to eat, Jamie. Wouldn’t want you to waste away now that we’ve got you._

 

~*~

It doesn’t scare him.

The quiet claiming. The drone that watches him, that brings him books and chocolates and truffles. Blankets and piles of clean clothes, thick gloves, and once--a kit of tiny tools and instructions.

He stares at them, for a long time, and then carefully, meticulously, follows them.

And when he’s done, and his arm clicks, servos whirling, plates shifting, it doesn’t hurt.

For the first time in almost seventy years--it doesn’t hurt.

~*~

He likes Budapest.

It’s new, a strange unfurling warmth, deep in his gut as he walks through the city, head down sometimes. Sometimes he sits in cafes, and watches the many people go by.

He _likes_ it, is the thing.

He can’t remember the last thing he liked.

~*~

He talks to his drone sometimes.

Tells it about the couple on the river he saw, the girls who go engaged amid the sunset light and a flock of birds. He talks about the bread his mama used to make and the give of warm chocolate under his fingers and sometimes, he reads to it, long hours of Tolstoy and Fitzgerald,  and Pratchett.

The drone sits, listens almost curiously and he can’t help but think--someone else is listening.

~*~

He runs, after DC, after the mission that goes to hell, because he know to run, remembers his orders, runs until he reaches Budapest and he doesn’t know where to go from there.

He stops, because he is tired, and because he doesn’t know, what to do, without orders.

But stopping--it’s peaceful. Calm. He begins, slowly, to remember--a ghost who says a name like a prayer, an endless fall and blood, blood, blood.

He knows it will end, this peace and remembering. Knows _they_ will claim him. He is a soldier, a weapon, an _Asset_ and they will never let him slip their leash for long.

But without orders--he waits. Lingers in this liminal space, this city of dreams and choices.

It won’t last.

It can’t last.

But while it does--he cherishes it.

~*~

It ends quiet.

Without fanfare.

It ends with his drone, swooping into the room and a voice, sharp and quick and softer than he expected. “Listen, Jamie, you gotta listen to me, ok?”

“You’re there,” he murmurs and there’s a huff. A breath of laughter.

“Yeah, baby. I’m here. But I need you to listen. Can you do that? Can you listen to me?”

He thinks of the gifts. The food and the chocolate, the books and little notes of places to visit, the carefully written instructions for his arm, the warm clothes and he smiles.

Nods. He has waited, so long, for new orders. And these. These are given so gently, with so much _care._

“What do I need to do.”

~*~

An ocean away, Tony’s hands tremble, not quite sure how he earned this trust. But it’s there, and James Buchanan Barnes is staring at his little drone, waiting for orders.

He doesn’t want to give them. Doesn’t ever want to give him orders.

He closes his eyes, and says, simply, “You have to run.”

 


End file.
